


Becoming Charles Delaware Tate

by rhodrymavelyne



Category: Dark Shadows - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-20
Updated: 2015-08-20
Packaged: 2018-04-15 15:26:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,278
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4611885
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rhodrymavelyne/pseuds/rhodrymavelyne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Peter Bradford is dying in his jail cell, when a stranger makes him an offer. It's an offer guaranteed to allow him to see Victoria Winters again. However, it will change him into a completely different person.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Becoming Charles Delaware Tate

**Author's Note:**

> This fan fiction was inspired by the fact that Roger Davies, who played the original Peter Bradford, also played another character named Charles Delaware Tate. I started thinking, "What if they were the same person?" There are elements of 'Revival', as well, in the character of Peter Bradford. Danielle Roget is a bit different in this story. In my DS stories, she is a vampire and the same person as Roxanne Drew. There's a bit more of Basil Hallward and Sir Henry Wottan in Tate and Petofi in this story, considering their, ah, response to Quentin Collins. Yes, Petofi is playing a bit with time here, although he needs Danielle's help to do so. He's still a bit limited on how much he can do it, so he'll still need Barnabas and Quentin in the future. Another change is that nobody but Peter realized there had been a change in Victoria to Phyllis on the gallows. Ben Stokes and Ben Loomis are different people in this story. Ben Stokes isn't Barnabas' loyal servant, but the one who designed his music box, replacing the character in the Innovation comics. Dark Shadows doesn't belong to me. It just keeps luring me back with ideas, stories, and reinventions of characters and events within this world.

He should have been dead. His shoulder ached, where the bullet had entered his arm. He should have followed Victoria Winters to the gallows. Instead, all he'd done was watch, as the hangman put the noose around her neck. The sack had come down over her face, denying her last breath. If only he'd had more power! If only he could have saved her! All he'd done was watch, as the stool was kicked away, and her body dropped. There had been something horrible about that flurry of petticoats and tiny feet, kicking the air. Even those who'd believed her guilty had turned their heads, unable to watch. When she stopped twitching, her murderers had cut her body down. The sack had been removed from her head.

Peter Bradford didn't know, if his scream had been one of terror or relief. It had come out as a gargling croak. It hadn't been his beloved Victoria Winters, no. It had been some girl he'd never seen before. Everyone acted, as if nothing strange had happened, as if the strange girl had been the witch, the one condemned to die on the gallows all along. Her name was murmured through the gathering. Phyllis Wicke. Peter remembered the name. It had been the name of the governess, whom Naomi Collins originally engaged, before Peter had persuaded Joshua to hire Victoria Winters instead. It had been Phyllis Wicke, who'd lived at Collinwood. Phyllis Wicke was the one who'd been accused of witchcraft. Even in his poorly state, Peter had gathered this much from the murmurs. 

"No," he mumbled, as he bled. She hadn't been the witch. Victoria Winters had been. How could you explain what had happened, if she wasn't? Victoria had disappeared, as mysteriously as she'd appeared. If you believed her, she had come from the future. Had she returned to that future, from 1785? How she could she do such a thing, if she wasn't a witch? Perhaps Phyllis Wicke had been the true witch, but why would she bring herself back to be hanged, if she was? Perhaps this was more of Angelique's doing, but Angelique was trying to kill Victoria, not save her. 

All Peter Bradford knew was that he loved Victoria Winters. He'd promised to find her, even if it was impossible.

"You can do it, Peter." A woman was speaking to him. A woman was standing in the cell with him. "You can find Victoria Winters, if you'll allow my master and I to help you."

"Who are you?" Peter managed to croak. He tried to focus his uncooperative eyes upon this strange woman. Tall, she was taller than most women were. Her attire was that of a serving woman, though it ill suited her. She carried herself like a noblewoman. 

"Many people," the strange woman said, with a smile. Her teeth were unusually sharp. Pale, her skin was far too pale. As pale as Barnabas' had been, when Peter had glimpsed him in the moonlight, with blood on his lips. "You may call me Danielle Roget. It's as good a name as any for this time and place."

"You're a vampire," Peter whispered, as the dizziness came over him. The deepest, richest wisps of auburn hair peeking out of the stranger's white cap. It was even more beautiful than Natalie Du Pres's had been. "You're the one who attacked Barnabas in his own private chambers."

"I had no choice," the vampire murmured, She moved with impossible speed to where Peter lay on his rough cot. "Angelique Bouchard had control over my will." She reached out a hand to touch Peter's face. Her fingers were icy. "Thanks to my master, I was able to shake off her spell and regain my freedom." Her cold finger moved to Peter's neck, where his erratic pulse beat out a frightened tune. "Would you like to be free, as well, Peter Bradford? It's a shame that one so young and beautiful should die in a jail cell, just because he tried to save the woman he loved."

"I know better than to accept aid from you," Peter murmured, closing his eyes. "Whatever freedom you offer is worse than death."

"Are you certain of that?" Danielle Roget was bending over him. Peter could feel her breath. It was cold. It tingled. "Are you certain you wish to throw away your one chance to find Victoria Winters?" Fear and something worse than fear was making Peter's skin tingle. Please, God, no, don't let it be desire. "What if I offered to take you to her, if you let me kiss you?"

"You don't mean kiss," Peter mumbled, forcing himself to resist, although his body wanted to succumb to her charms. "You mean bite. Like you bit Barnabas."

"No, not like I bit Barnabas!" the vampire protested. Her dark eyes widened, as if shocked by the very suggestion. It reminded Peter painfully of Victoria's innocence, her ignorance of everything around her. "I told you! I changed him according to Angelique's wishes, not mine." Danielle moved, so she was whispering directly into Peter's ear. "My master has a different way of showing you eternity. Shall I show it to you?"

Without waiting for Peter's answer, Danielle moved, fast, faster than he could see. He felt her teeth, her fangs sinking into his neck, and suddenly, he wasn't there. Danielle Roget was gone, the cell was gone, and Peter's arm no longer hurt. 

Peter was standing among many paintings, in a place filled with light and flowers. A man was standing in the light, absorbing it, so he was only the dark shadow in the room. It took a moment of squinting to make out his face, as Peter studied him. He recognized the man. 

"Ben Stokes?" he asked. Peter's voice was stronger than it had been, since he'd been shot. Indeed, he was standing straight and tall, wearing a clean frock coat. The bloody wound in the chest was gone. The pain was gone. Had Danielle done this? Or was Ben responsible, if this was truly Ben. The Ben Stokes before him was different than the humble craftsman, whom Barnabas had commissioned to build Josette's music box. This Ben Stokes was clean and confident, wearing a frock coat of burgundy and lace most tradesmen couldn't afford. His bearing and manner was that of a gentleman. "No, you cannot be him. Who are you?"

"You could call me Ben Stokes. Or Timothy Stokes. Or Matthew Morgan. All of them are names I've used to hide in plain sight, or to keep an attentive eye upon those dear to me." 'Ben Stokes' smiled, as he took a rose from a vase. He gazed at the flower, before his eyes fixed themselves upon Peter. Peter's cheeks grew warm. Never had he received such an intense look from a gentleman before. It was as if he, Peter Bradford, was some kind of exotic and beautiful animal. "However, my title is Count Andreas Petofi."

"Count Andreas Petofi?" Peter asked. He was completely confused, as he looked around at the portraits. Some of them were finished, some weren't. He knew them all. He'd painted some of them himself. There was a landscape of Widows' Hill, as well as a portrait of Josette DuPres. Those he'd finished, giving to Barnabas and Josette as wedding presents. They should be hanging in the Old House, not here. There was a half finished portrait of Barnabas, his face stern and sad. Peter had meant to finish it, but he'd been too busy planning the construction of Collinwood, or studying law. There was a painting of Victoria, her dark eyes wide with wonder. Peter had never painted her, yet here she was, captured on canvas, exactly as he'd imagined. "What is this? What is this place?"

"A dream carried by the kiss of a vampire," Count Petofi said. He raised the flower to his lips, which were full and generous. "Although I can make all this quite real." 

The count handed the flower to Peter. Peter hesitated, before he accepted. There was some significance to this action, something he'd regret later. However, the rose smelled fresh and wonderful.

"What a bright, beautiful young man you are, Peter Bradford," Petofi said, smiling at him. "Like this flower, you're doomed to wither and fall, very soon. I could change all that."

"What do you mean?" Peter asked. His gaze was drawn to Petofi's hands. They were large, larger than a nobleman's tended to be, although they were hidden in black gloves. One of those gloved hands was tugging the glove off the other.

"I can give you all of this," Petofi said. His hand was pulled free of the glove. The skin was horrible, reddened, as if it had been burned. There was a red ring on one of the fingers. "I can make you the artist you've always dreamed of becoming, instead of the advocate, who failed to save his love." The hand reached out to Peter. Peter flinched, as it touched his face. "I can give you the power to paint a future, which will lead to your Victoria Winters." Those rough fingers moved from his face to his neck. "However, I require two things of you in return."

"I'm guessing one of those things is my soul," Peter muttered. His skin crawled at the count's touch. He didn't dare protest, but he didn't like it. "Are you the Devil?"

"My dear boy, I'm neither the devil, nor one of his servants!" Count Petofi laughed, a low, rumbling sound. "I generally don't collect souls, although I do enjoy collecting individuals. Special, remarkable individuals, like yourself."

"If not my soul, then what?" Peter asked. He studied the count's face, as his hands continued to caress his neck. Petofi's face wasn't unpleasant. It was lined with age, but they were distinguished lines. This was a man, who could still make the ladies swoon, despite his advanced years. "What do you want of me, Count Petofi?"

"Your name," the count said. His eyes were dark, as piercing as Barnabas' or Joshua Collins', but even more compelling. "If you strike a bargain with me, you will cease to be Peter Bradford. You will accept a new name of my choosing." Petofi's hand moved down Peter's neck to his chest. It crawled across his chest to his arm. "Are you willing to change? To face your Victoria Winters in another time with another name?"

If he ceased to be Peter Bradford, Victoria might not recognize him. Even so, Peter couldn't believe a name was all he amounted to. "Agreed," Peter said.

Petofi's hand reached for his own hand. "We have a bargain," the count said sweetly, before he seized Peter's hand. Peter gasped. Victoria's dark eyes stared at him, wide with fear, before they vanished. Who had he been thinking of? He tried to hold onto an image of Barnabas and Jeremiah, smiling, laughing, but even as he did, it slipped away. Barnabas and Jeremiah? Who were they? He tried to remember them, but he was having trouble recalling their names. Thoughts, ideas, images of playing as a child, everything was being swallowed, drawn into the hand gripping his.

"You are Peter Bradford no longer!" Count Petofi hissed. The count released him to touch his forehead, pressing his fingers against it. "As promised, you will find Victoria Winters again, but you will not know her, or love her! You are mine, Charles Delaware Tate!"

A new sense of self, of identity was flowing through Charles, as he blinked in confusion. He was wearing his usual smock. He looked down at the flower he was holding. Why had he ever thought it was a flower? It was a paintbrush. He had a portrait to do. There was a face in his heart and mind, which needed to be transferred into oils, even though Charles had never met the man. 

Petofi guided his hand gently to a canvas. It was waiting for him on the easel, waiting to be filled by the image in his mind. The image was of a tall, proud man with beautiful, blue eyes and a wicked smile. 

"My second requirement of you is to paint the man in your mind," Petofi murmured. "Paint him, my dear boy, with all your heart and soul."

"Who is he?" Charles whispered, as he reached for his paints, dabbing his brush into one of them. First, he had to fill in the background, but the mysterious man's face was all he could think of.

"The perfect, ideal beauty, for all his many lies and sins," Count Petofi said. There was a little catch in his voice, as if he could see the image in Charles' head. "His name is Quentin Collins."

Quentin Collins. Charles repeated the name to himself, as his brush began its almost enchanted dance across the canvas. Lost in painting, he let out a small sigh, as the body Danielle Roget held breathed its last.

The vampire sighed, as she dropped Peter Bradford's body back on the cot. The lovely young man was dead. Which meant whatever magic Count Petofi had wrought was working. It seemed like a waste. Danielle would have liked to have kept him to herself, but the count had plans of his own for the young man. Peter Bradford was now immortal in a different way than Barnabas or herself. This meant Danielle had a chance of seeing him again, although she'd no longer be Danielle Roget and he wouldn't be Peter Bradford. 

Danielle smiled in the darkness of the cell, before she disappeared from it, leaving the body for the guards to find.


End file.
